nightmare

1
There are dreams–nightmares–that in terror, I cry out to myself to wake up

To see once again my dearly familiar room, quiet, cozy, and ordinary like any other room

I reach for a glass of water, check the green electric time, pick up sheets and pillows that have fallen onto the floor

I lie quietly in darkness, listening to my breathing, listening to my heartrhythms

To the sounds of cars passing by, of the ticking clock, of the fridge humming, of the winds outside softly blowing . . .

And I see life goes on as usual, peaceful, orderly, fixed.

2
Can this be just another nightmare–a dream–that I have yet cried out in darkness and despair to rouse myself safely up?

Will all these pains, sorrows, tears, doubts and fears . . . eventually pass with the night?

If I bite my fingers–bleeding–pinch my flesh–bruised–if I still don’t feel that much pain, then have I still the hope of waking up?

If my heart is shattered as I watch it shatters, watching myself watching – then can I be just dreaming–‘tis only a nightmare–and everything will eventually pass with the night?

3
But it has been too long, too long that I have died and lived, I withered, my hopeful eyes sunk

And in this nightmare, I dream still; I search for a way out–so that I can wake myself up–

But I stumble and bash, still unable to wake up–again–again

(05/21/01)

© idlehouse